


Beetlejuice II: Out of the Shadows, Out of the Grave

by Cryptid Kel (TheGreatKelthulhu)



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Welding, Comedy, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Musicals, My attempt at a sequel, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22170517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatKelthulhu/pseuds/Cryptid%20Kel
Summary: The year is 1995. A certain young goth woman can't seem to shake the man stalking her; a certain nasty ghost is frustrated and wants out. The solution to both of their problems may be each other.(But things never really go as planned, do they?)
Relationships: Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 10
Kudos: 115





	1. Overground (Prologue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my own personal Beetlejuice sequel that I'm writing, because I won't see an official one and also because nobody is stopping me.  
> There will be elements from the other continuities (cartoon, musical) that I like, but this is still primarily a movie sequel fic. 
> 
> Enjoy! (or don't. I'm not your boss.)

He wanted out of this pseudo-life in the Netherworld. The air was stale. The company was meagre, if there ever was any at all. Time moved differently, so he would never be truly up to date on anything. Especially since he had been sent back to his coffin, after his stunt with the Maitlands and Dietzes; the fact that time passed differently there meant he had no idea how long he’s been stuck back in his grave, or how long he’d been sitting in that goddamn waiting room.

But he knew one thing-he’d been in both places for _far_ too fucking long. It was drab, it was dark, it was boring. It felt like he was stuck in _Limbo_ , for fuck’s sakes!

Then again, he supposed he _was_. He’d never gotten into Heaven, he had yet to be sent to Hell (permanently), and he’d already did his stint in Purgatory with Juno.

_Christ._ He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.

Stuck in Limbo. With nothing much to do, nobody to see, and his powers essentially bound-- there was no one (except the highers up) who even knew he was there, and no living soul left around who remembered him (and actually wanted him around), so there was no one to call him.

He was nameless. He was bound. He was underground. And everything worth a fuck was _over_ ground.

He was just another soul lost in the crowd of dead people no one gave a sweet fuck about.

_Fuck that noise._

He wanted to mingle with people— _modern_ people. _Alive_ people. He wanted a life of pleasantries—hell, he just wanted a _life_ , period!

He wanted to be overground. Far from the Netherworld. Far from his grave. He wanted his identity as the “Ghost with the Most” back. He wanted to get out. He wanted to be _alive_. That much was clear to him now.

He wanted to be overground. And he would be, he’d try his damndest. And once he was, well...

“I’ll be worse than me!” he cackled to himself, rubbing his hands together and summoning up his “juice”. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion song for this prologue is--what else?--"Overground" by Siouxsie and the Banshees.  
> It inspired this chapter, and may be fun to listen to while reading this.


	2. Spiderwebs (Chapter 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion song for this chapter is "Spiderwebs" by No Doubt.

Lydia tentatively entered her apartment, the door slowly opening with a soft creak. She surveyed the small expanse of mildly cheesy furniture, and eased herself in, locking the door behind her.

She crept from room to room—which didn’t take long, considering how small the apartment was—checking every space, nook, and cranny, then she finally allowed herself to drop her messenger bag and flop over on the bed. She let out a long, tired breath.

She was more than a little sick of having to do this, of having to sweep the place before she could sit down and relax. Of making sure she was actually alone there. Of having to check to see if _he_ had broken in again.

She yanked off her rose-ensignia’d black boots, rolled over on her stomach, and clutched a chintzy looking pillow.

She didn’t know why he’d chosen her, why he thought she was a good target, why he thought she wanted him, and just _why_ in general. She’d (barely) met him exactly _once_ , and from then on he’d thought they had a connection and had become absolutely _obsessed_ with her. And she couldn’t seem to escape him.

He’d broken in before. She couldn’t really prove anything beyond a doubt to anyone else (except Belinda), but she _knew_ he’d been in there. She could just tell, the whole place just seemed _off_.  
She still wasn’t sure how he’d done it. Maybe he'd learned how to pick locks.  


_Locks..._

Something itched at the back of Lydia’s mind as she rolled over on her back, glancing around the corner that passed as her bedroom.

 _Locks...lock..._

She’d checked the locks as soon as she’d come in, so that wasn’t it. Then what was it?...

_Oh no._

As she focused on the small wooden nightstand next to her bed, she finally realized.

_Lock. A lock...of_ _**hair.**_

Hair that was the wrong colour. Hair that wasn’t hers. _His_ hair.

_Jesus Heather Christ..._

Lydia slowly sat herself up, and reached over to pluck up the light brown strands, examining them closely.  
They matched _his_ hair. And rather than seeming to be haphazardly plucked from his head or picked out of a hairbrush, they seemed...clipped.  


He’d cut some of his own hair to leave with her.

Lydia almost threw up.

She set it back down, and pulled her knees up to her chest, holding herself tightly.

Not only had that crazy bastard broken into the place she was trying to make her (temporary) sanctuary, he’d left part of _himself_ there. The brazenness. The audacity!

_The stomach-churning anxiety._

Lydia shakily managed to get up and walk over to the kitchen sink, trying her best to breathe evenly. She filled up a glass of water and slowly walked into the bathroom, emerging with an anti-anxiety pill; she downed both quickly, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her red turtlenecked leotard.

After either a few minutes or an eternity—she wasn’t sure which—Lydia pressed a button on her answering machine (which she hadn’t previously felt ready to answer), and listened to her messages.

One from Dad and Delia. How was she? How was college? They missed her. Call them back. The usual.  
Well, that one was fine. Their familiar voices were a comfort. Even Delia’s.  


One message from one of her photography friends, asking when she’d like to get together to snap some nice pictures of the parks again.  
Not anytime soon, unfortunately. But sometime again, she hoped.  


Next one. The next one...

“Hello, my beautiful China doll.”  
_Oh fuck._  


“I see you weren’t home today. I missed you. And I bet you missed me.”  
_Likely fucking story._  


“So I left you a little piece of me to tide you over until next time!” She could practically hear the grin in his voice.  
_Ugh._  


“Call me back soon, my dear. Bye.”

“Yeah, right!”  
Lydia resisted the urge to throw the answering machine out the window, and instead laid back down on her bed.  


Well. He’d confirmed it. He’d been in there, and left the hair. Intruding on her space and making her sick to her stomach.

And calling her that ridiculous pet name. Why the fuck did he think she liked that?? Because she was pale??  
In addition to being a creepy and entitled piece of shit, he was also apparently really stupid. A _wonderful_ combination.  
  
She couldn’t believe that stupid, creepy motherfucker was the reason she had to screen her calls and messages. The reason she had nightmares and woke up in a cold sweat far too often. The reason she had to drop out of Tisch before the last year of her degree.  
  
The reason she was on this damned foul-tasting anti-anxiety medication. (Not that it could help much in a situation like this).  


“Fuck’s sake!” she groaned, covering the upper part of her face with a pillow. His voice was _still_ ringing in her ears, still raising her hackles, still making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in a very unpleasant way.

She wished she had the balls to go to him and beat his ass. And the strength. Sure, she’d been taking self-defense classes for the past year, but she still wasn’t very strong or very brave; all it had been so far was just good exercise.  
So, that wasn’t an option.  


She felt weak, and stuck. Like a fly caught in a spiderweb. Like the prey _he’d_ made her into.

She couldn’t take much more of this. She _had_ to get out of this restricting, imprisoning, nerve-killing, soul-destroying situation.

She removed the pillow, rubbed a hand over her face, smearing her makeup a bit, and began to think.


	3. Obsession (Chapter 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion song for this chapter is "Obsession" by Siouxsie and the Banshees, which is as creepy as the name suggests. And that makes it perfect for this fucker's POV.

He could hear his breathing over the din of the traffic outside, it was so heavy. Hell, he could even hear his heartbeat, pounding and thudding away in his chest.  
_Like a drum of passion._  


A passion for _her_ —his beautiful China Doll. He wanted to be joined with her _so_ badly, he could hardly stand it; he almost felt like he was suffocating, and she was his air.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, to go to sleep and dream of them together, but found that he couldn’t. The image of her was seared into the backs of his eyelids—her pale skin, raven hair, and ingenue-esque face haunted him. It was _much_ too tantalizing and enthralling to ignore, no matter how tired he was.

She was too beautiful and captivating for her own good. And too flirtatious.

Sure, she was playing hard-to-get, but that’s just what women did; he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. The signs were all there, even early on, and he had instantly taken them as his green light to act.

Though she pretended otherwise, the little tease.

Cops had showed up to his place a couple of months ago, to question him about a break-in in his beloved China Doll’s new apartment. He’d said that he knew nothing about it, of course—why give away the game? The game that her and he played, where he’d pursue and she’d demure and they’d continue on and on.  
He’d nearly fainted that day, he was so excited. His China Doll had upped the ante on their little lovers’ game, and he could hardly handle the electric tickles in his belly.  


So, this time, he’d decided he’d repay her in kind. He left her a lock of his hair. Another sign for her that he was just wild about her, and that he was more than happy to keep playing their little game.

He folded his hands behind his head and wondered if she’d send the cops to his place again. It was a strange and aggressive move for her to do so, when she _clearly_ accepted his affections, so he had to only guess that she was either testing his love or simply loved the thrill of it—or perhaps both.

“My sweet China Doll,” he whispered into the dark, “Can you ever forgive me? For not truly understanding your ways of showing your love?” He hoped so. Women were confusing creatures, but he was madly in love with her, so he could pass her tests and play her games.  
(It also helped that they were fun and sometimes challenging.)  


Others wouldn’t see it that way, of course. Others had misunderstood what was going on between him and Lydia, misunderstood him and how he showed his love. They even misunderstood how _Lydia_ felt about **him**!

Some thought he was crazy. Some called him a _stalker_. Some called him **dangerous**.

Well! He was _crazy_ in love, persistent, and swept away by his romantic ideals, but he _hardly_ thought that those accusations against him were remotely fair.

Oh well! They could say that he and Lydia’s love only existed in his “sick” imagination (some people just had no sense of romance, a rather depressing fact), but he and his China Doll knew the truth—that they were meant for each other, and the games they played and other people’s disapproval of of their love were only a divine test for the two of them, to gauge their mutual devotion.

And he was _so_ devoted. And Lydia too, though her ways of showing it were odd to him.  
Oh well! She would show him the sign before long, and he’d no longer be suffocating under the need for distance and games.  


He finally closed his eyes, and soon dozed off, now calmer.

His heart was secure in the claws of her love, and she’d soon enough be in his secure embrace. He wanted that, and he knew she did too.


	4. Invisible (Chapter 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I rewrote a lil bit of Eddie Perfect's "Prologue: Invisible" to fit into this story, it's also the companion song.  
> Also, Belinda is an OC, and she will absolutely be showing up.  
> 

“I...I honestly don’t have words.” Lydia ran a hand through her hair as her other one held the phone to her ear.

“What do you mean?’ she furrowed her brow, “What do—You’re honestly telling me that there’s _nothing_ you can do? _At all_?” Her voice rose a bit.

“Even though he _broke in_?! Even though he’s been _following_ me?!” She was now pacing around her bedroom, getting more and more agitated with the cop on the other end of the line, and with the concept of police in general.

_Why even have them, if they don’t want to help??_

“What does that mean?” she asked, after another explanation that she was sure was mostly bullshit.

“No _proof_?!” she was about to flip her lid. No _proof_ that that fucker had been stalking her for the better part of a year?? No lock of his hair that he’d left behind?? No corroborating stories from other people, that she’d already given them months ago?? No previous police reports, dating back to the fall of this previous year??? No _proof_???

_NO FUCKING PROOF??_

“Thanks for _nothing_!” she yelled, before slamming the phone back down on its cradle.

 _Sons of bitches..._

Belinda was right. Cops _don’t_ help, and you can’t rely on them to do their damn supposed jobs. Now she was dealing with this shit pretty much alone (save for Belinda and her family’s help, thank God for them!), and with less help than what she really needed (and less than Belinda’s family could provide, which wasn't even their job!).

_God fucking dammit._

Lydia wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to rage. She wanted to fall into a deep sleep and only wake up once this whole situation was over and done with, just Sleeping Beauty her way out of it.

Instead, she flopped down onto her bed, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began scribbling down her feelings; poems, songs, and the like helped her deal with some of her feelings, when therapy or photography couldn’t. Sometimes it just helped to get them out.

She furiously etched word after word into the lined pages, which were occasionally blotted with tears of frustration. She even ripped the paper a couple of times, she was pressing the pen down so hard. 

After almost two hours, she laid down her pen and closed her eyes for a bit.

Writing could be oddly exhausting, especially when you were dealing with such strong emotions. But, tired as she was from it, Lydia found that she did feel _some_ relief, now that those feelings were let out of her.

After a few minutes (or a few centuries, as it felt like) she opened her eyes and flipped through what she’d written.

Most of it was just incoherent raging against her situation, against those responsible for it and for the lack of help, against the ones who’d ignored her when she’d communicated that she was in trouble, against the ones who had blamed her for it, against the ones who had turned their nose up at her for the nerve of being a victim of something she’d never wanted, against everyone who had ignored her when she clearly needed and had asked for help, against everyone who carried on as though nothing was wrong when Lydia was in goddamn danger every day; in the midst of that, though, she found a poem that really encapsulated how she was feeling.

Still not completely done with the emotions that had wracked her mind and body, she re-read the poem aloud.

> “You’re invisible when you’re stalked.  
>  Nobody sees a thing.  
>  And every single time I balked,  
>  No one ever noticed a thing.  
> 
> 
> Whispering behind their hands,  
>  Like I can’t hear what they say.  
>  They’ll never understand  
>  What it’s like to feel this way.  
> 
> 
> Dunno how to fix things.  
>  No one listens, they only give me shame.  
>  They act like I want it.  
>  Is it being needy to want someone to see me?  
>  And not give me blame?  
> 
> 
> Seems when you’re a victim,  
>  No one gives a goddamn.  
>  They carry on, that’s that.  
>  You’re invisible when you’re stalked."

Lydia wiped tears from her now puffy face.  
_Invisible._  
Yes, that was how she felt. Invisible, ignored, not worth the trouble of helping.

Not too many people had wanted to help Lydia when she had opened up about her creepy stalker issue, and even fewer people had been willing to do something. Friends had ditched her, university faculty had only done the bare minimum (if they had done anything at all), and the police had written her off as unimportant.

The only person who was in a position to help, and did so...was Belinda.

Belinda, her best friend in the city. Belinda, who was studying and training to be a social worker. Belinda, who was fiercely devoted to making the world safer for women. Belinda, whose kindness had made Lydia cry. Belinda, who believed her and did whatever she could to help.

She owed a _lot_ to Belinda; when Lydia had no longer felt safe at university and was desperate for somewhere else to stay, Belinda had asked her family if there was anywhere they could put her up for a while—her cousin’s apartment, while she was visiting their great-grandmother in Cabo Verde, was free for the better part of a year. Belinda had used the resources of her own studies and school to get Lydia information on potential options for help (which ended up not panning out, but hey, she tried).

Lydia had no idea how she’d ever pay her back for all of this, but she made a mental note to do any favour her dear and loyal friend would ever ask of her, going on.

_Speaking of favours..._

She freshened her face up in the bathroom, cleaning off her makeup and slipping to black pajamas; it was late, and she was tired.

But first, daylight was coming, and she wanted to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was gonna be one chapter with two companion songs and plot points, but once I started writing this chapter made it clear that it would stand all on its own.


	5. Out of the Shadows (Chapter 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion song for this chapter is...pretty obvious if you read on.  
> Also yes, this is what I partially named the fic after.

Lydia yawned once again before taking another sip of her coffee. She hadn’t slept that well during the night, and really needed the extra boost caffeine would provide her.

Especially if she was going to find a way to escape.

It was going to be difficult...and she hadn’t completely thought it through, but she _needed_ to do it. She was in danger here, and the whole situation was driving her insane. The stress wasn’t good for her, either.  
Granted, she’d be stressed from getting out of the city, too, but at least that would come to an end.

Yawning again, Lydia turned shuffled over to the nightstand and turned on the clock radio, eager to have something other than city noises and her own thoughts to start her day with.

That did not go as she expected.

A live version of Sarah McLachlan’s “Out of The Shadows” was playing. Lydia considered switching stations for a moment, hand hovering over the black rectangle...then withdrew.

The lyrics were speaking to her, and making her feel understood (which hadn’t really been happening much lately), so she decided to go sit at the tiny kitchen peninsula and listen while downing her coffee.

"Crouching down inside a deep ravine  
Those angry cries pass quickly by, can’t be seen  
So many ways spent hiding in so many undone plans  
Forgetting what it’s like to fight when no one understands”

_Oof_.  
Yeah, that was how she felt. She was angry, metaphorically in a place where she was doubting her ability to escape, ignored, and damn near nobody seemed to understand what she was going through.

_Shit. Sarah really got it._

“Close call there in the shadows  
There’s a fear in the dark  
There’s no one out there”

Lydia’s mind flashed back to yesterday, remembering that creepy son of a bitch’s lock of hair that he’d left.  
Shivering and calming her gut, she downed the rest of her coffee.

“All those memories, pain and anger, flood back one by one  
They might just be around the bend, they always come  
At night as I lay sleeping, they come to me in herds  
Their lies remain, the dreams the same, it’s only fleeting words”

She had indeed had more than a few nightmares since the stalking began. Usually different scenarios, but they all ended the same—with her captured by that bastard.

She usually managed to calm herself afterward, or even sometimes Belinda did (thank God she was open to the odd late night call), and go back to sleep...but she knew she wasn’t really “Okay” or “safe now”. Those were just words.

“No one calls, there in the shadows  
There’s no end to the dark  
‘Cause there’s no one out there, no one but me...”

Shit, that’s certainly how it felt. No end to the stalking and fear, and apart from a select few people she was pretty much on her own.

Lydia stood up from her chair and started breakfast, still tired and also somehow oddly soothed by the deceptively soft-sounding song.

“The hours pass so slowly, the life’s slipping out of me  
No way’s the right way, is there a way out for me?  
My life’s slipping out...”

This whole situation certainly was making the life seep out of her. And _was_ there a right way out for her? One that would lead her to safety? And allow for her to heal and get her fucking life back again?

Lydia pondered this while firing up the oven and cracking some eggs.

“Rising up, the night is done, and now the bright lights come  
Held back in my pitied world where everything’s undone  
A cold wind blows right through me, I’ve made a hollow shell  
There’s nothing left, just ash remains, enrich the soul, no soul, no soul...”

_Hollow shell._  
Yeah, that pretty much described how Lydia was feeling about herself lately.

She had dropped out of university and friend groups, she didn’t go out as much any more, she was _barely_ doing any photography or anything artistic, her mental health was getting worse and she wasn’t enjoying things as much as she’d used to...she just wasn't enjoying her _life_ , or even really living it. She felt soulless.

_Hollow shell. Yup._

She shoved some bread down into the toaster.

“Close call there in shadows  
There’s an end to the dark  
‘Cause there’s someone out there, someone like me”

_An end to the dark._  
Yeah, she hoped so. She hoped her plan (what little she had of it so far) would work, even just for a little while. Even if she couldn’t completely escape this asshole, she could _at least_ get some respite.

And of course she wasn’t alone after all—others had been stalked (she’d tried a support group for a short time, before **he** had found out about it), and she had Belinda. Hell—Sarah McLachlan herself had been stalked lately, hadn’t she?  
Yeah, she wasn’t the only one out there dealing with this shit. It was sad, but also reassuring.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice. 

“The hours pass so slowly, the life’s slipping out of me  
No way’s the right way, is there a way out for me?  
The hours pass so slowly, the life’s slipping out of me, is there a way out for me?  
The hours pass so slowly, the life’s slipping out of me, is there a way out for me?  
There must be a way out for me”

Lydia sat down with her eggs and toast. A small breakfast, but it was all her stomach decided it could handle since yesterday’s lock-of-hair incident.

As she ate, and as the Sarah McLachlan song faded out, she felt herself getting more and more confident.

She _was_ going to escape. She _was_ going to go home. She _would_ have the time and space to breathe and maybe enjoy her life again. At some point, he _would_ be dealt with.  
She _could_ do this.

And now, she was getting a better idea of what "this" was.

She wanted to go home, to get out of the city. She wanted to pack up all of her stuff, and just hit the damn road.  
**Without** him knowing, which was gonna be the difficult part.

Lydia finished her breakfast, rinsed off the dishes, pulled out her notebook and pen, and dialed Belinda’s number.

She’d need her help to do this. And she _would_ do this. One way or another.


	6. Black and White Part 1 (Chapter 5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion song for this chapter is "Black and White" by Sarah McLachlan...but only the first part.
> 
> The other part is for the next chapter.

Beetlejuice had finally escaped his grave. Unfortunately, he had not escaped the grave _yard_.

He had wandered around the place, tipping his hat at the other spooks he occasionally saw (and there weren’t **that** many, as most ghosts preferred to haunt places with more living folks) and scaring the pants off the odd breather. But that got boring after a while.  
And staying in a graveyard—even as nicely maintained as it was, with its perfectly shorn grass and well-crafted wreaths—was _not_ what he had come up here to do. 

No sirree. The Ghost with the Most was here to get out and play. And play he **would**.

Once he figured out how to actually _leave_.

Getting out of his grave had been the easy part—he’d simply wound his “juice” up inside him, small and tight, compressing it...then he’d released it, all but exploding out of his little plot of small town Connecticut dirt.  
And he’d been out! Back in his black-and-white striped suit and feeling fresher than he had in ages! (Well, fresh for a dead guy, anyway). Like an animal woken from a long hibernation, he was ready to get out there and sate his appetites. Ready to fulfill his needs (and even being dead, he _did_ still have them).

It was just the leaving the overall cemetery that was difficult.

He’d initially just attempted to waltz right out of one of the entrance/exits, whistling as he did, but once his ghostly foot had crossed over the threshold...well.  
He had found himself flat on his dead ass.

He’d tried this a few more times, then checked the other entrance/exit on the other side. Nope, no go.  
He had then realized that there were no actual walls to the Winter River Cemetery, so he took a chance and a running start toward the road.  
That ended about as well as expected.

Every single goddamn time he tried to leave this place, he couldn’t. He was trapped.

_Fuck! Goddamn fuck!_

So, he had spent the past few days (week? Week _ **s**_? He wasn’t sure) finding ways to amuse himself.

Counting cars got very boring very quickly. He could only scare breathers if they actually entered the graveyard—otherwise, they didn’t seem to notice him. (No surprise there, really. He’d read the Handbook, after all). Most of the few other ghosts around didn’t seem to want to talk to him...and his only real companions were the smaller wildlife that dared to venture around, and they weren’t much for conversation.

At least there were bugs. Even though he never truly got hungry, he could still do with a few snacks.

In between trying to tell squirrels about the Black Plague and sprinkling ants into his mouth, he found himself meandering around and reading the headstones.

That wasn’t _particularly_ interesting, but as previously noted there wasn’t much else for him to do. He did, however, manage to piece some stories of the other inhabitants together; he got a laugh out of himself when he figured out that a Mr. Edgar Howard Johnson—dead for about 84 years now—had apparently been buried next to both his wife...and his mistress.

Judging by the death dates listed (and the scraps of gossip that the other ghosts had given him), Mr. E H Johnson had had his mistress killed when she threatened to tell his wife...only for he himself to be killed when his wife reveal that she already knew, and had a shotgun.

The wife—Mrs. Betsy Jane Johnson—had lived a longer, happier life, dying about 15 years later.

A philanderer having his plan blow up in his face along with gunpowder. _Heh_. That was a real knee-slapper.

That was the most interesting story he had found, though. Except his.

He stopped his stroll by his own tombstone, gazing down at it contemplatively.

It had his birth name, birth and death dates, a short blurb about his family and origins, and the typical Rest in Peace. Pretty normal. Pretty forgettable.  
Just like his life before.

Beetlejuice shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He didn’t much like thinking about his previous life. For one thing, it was forever ago, about...two-hundred and ninety-two years ago. (Some would say longer, but that was just a lie he told them to make himself sound more impressive—the older a ghost is, the scarier they are. Fun fact.). For another...well, for the most part, it had _sucked_.

He’d loved his mother—rest her soul—but his father and brother...well. There was a reason he had never gone looking for **them** once he’d crossed over into the Netherworld. (Apart from his workload at the time, anyway).

Life in early New York City hadn’t exactly been easy, either. Well, for a time it had been, but then his father had decided to go and get consumption or whatever the fuck it was, and died; being the oldest child and oldest son meant he had had to step up in his father’s place, and making enough money for himself and his mother _and_ younger brother had been pretty fuckin’ stressful.  
Then his wife had left him, then his mother had died, then his wife had come back and slowly died, then he fucked around for a while before ultimately killing himself.

Yeah, his life before was real fuckin’ great.

Beetlejuice rolled his eyes and shook his head, a couple of dead flies falling out of his hair.

“Who the fuck needs to remember that shit, anyway?” It’s not like he was ever going to see them again. Even if he went looking for them. Even if he begged Juno to check. And honestly, good riddance to most of them!

“I’m the Ghost with the Most!” he declared to absolutely no one, because the graveyard was currently empty of even the other spirits, “Who needs to remember that other life? The **after** one I’ve got now is great!”  
He cackled, though it was a bit empty.

Sure, he had his powers. Sure, he had no need to fear death anymore. And sure, he had escaped his grave.

But he was still stuck in the cemetery. Still stick with the other stiffs. Still trapped, not free like he wanted.

He felt frustration wind up in his chest, small and tight, ready to explode like his “juice” had previously.

He was trapped. He was stuck here and couldn’t do anything about it. Or do much of anything, really.  
(There was only so much you could “juice up” when in a small-ish cemetery, only so much entertainment he could fit in there. Why the fuck couldn’t he have died closer to Las Vegas??).  
He basically, more or less, pretty much, was _juiceless_.

And he knew he had been like that once, in his life, and had known who he was then (a **loser** ).

But who was he _now_? In this situation he was in? With these limitations?

He didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beej's expanded backstory is something I came up with. I've spent waaaay too many hours on it ^_^'


	7. Black and White Part 2 (Chapter 6)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion song for this chapter is the latter half of "Black and White" by Sarah McLachlan.

“Yeah, so how about it? You think I can come down to the house for a while?” Lydia twirled the phone cord around her finger nervously.  
The call to Belinda had gone smoothly—of course it had, Belinda was in the loop on the situation and happy to help—but the current one to her parents was nerve-wracking; they knew next to nothing of Lydia’s being stalked, only that she had dropped out of her last year of school (cleverly explained away as a “mental health year” that her psych had advised), and dancing around that wasn’t easy.

“Of course, Pumpkin,” was her father’s reply, “Since Delia and I are gonna be down here in Florida for a little while, we’re gonna need someone to take care of the place, anyway.”

“Great!” said Lydia, a _wee_ bit too enthusiastically.

“Why’d you wanna come back down so soon, though? I thought you were enjoying your year off. Is everything alright?”

“ _Charles_ ,” Delia’s voice chastised, “Remember what the doctor said about your nerves. Do you _want_ another nervous breakdown?”

“No,” came the half-sighed reply.

“Then just stop asking Lydia so many questions.” Lydia could practically see Delia shaking her head. “And anyway—she’s young! She’s a kid! Maybe she just wants a break and a place to relax before going back to school. Maybe she’s taking proactive steps to stave off a breakdown, unlike her father.”

“Jesus, Delia,” Lydia couldn’t help but laugh, “Go easy on the poor man.”

“I’m just saying. With a history of mental...” she paused, invariably to search for a word that was kinder than what she originally had thought. “... _struggles_ in the family, Lydia’s right to take steps to prevent an...event like that.”

If you had told Lydia Dietz just 7 years ago that her much-loathed stepmother would become one of her biggest advocates and allies, she would have rolled her eyes right out of her head. Now, though, she was so grateful that their relationship had changed for the better over the years. If nothing else, it helped when her father was asking too many (anxiety-driven) questions.  
She still wasn’t about to tell Delia about her stalking situation, though. She wasn’t ready for that.

“Alright,” Charles acquiesced. “Pumpkin, you have the keys and the emergency credit card. And everyone’s phone numbers. If anything happens, just call us and we’ll be right up there.”

“Yes, Dad,” Lydia smiled into the phone, “I will. And I’ll be fine. It’ll be good to get away from the city for a while, enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“Good. Good. Have fun, Pumpkin. Take care.”

“Yeah. You too.”

“I will. Love you, Pumpkin.”

“I love you, Dad. And Delia.”

“Bye, Lydia. I’ll try to keep him out of your hair.” Delia hung up just as Charles was protesting against that.

Lydia smiled, hung up the phone, then leaned against the wall.

Hearing from her parents again had felt great and comforting and grounding...but it had _also_ been tense on her end. She couldn’t let them know about her being stalked without Dad flipping out, or Delia making the situation worse while trying to help. Or worrying about her.  
It was enough that **she** was burdened by it, but she didn’t want to dump the burden on **them**. Especially not when they were on a working vacation in Florida, the first they’d had in a couple of years.

It was just easier (though not really) to pretend that everything was fine. And a part of her just couldn’t help but fear disappointment in their faces if they learned how far she’d let this get. That part was irrational, sure—why would they be disappointed in her? They’d never blame her for this creep’s actions—but it was loud and un-ignorable.

Lydia shook her head to crash that train of thought, and dug her suitcases out from under the bed.

She didn’t have to think about breaking the news to her parents just now. Now, she had to focus on packing everything up and getting the hell out of here. From there, she could think through the rest.

As she was pulling clothes from dresser drawers and transferring them into the big leather luggage bags, she found herself thinking of her time at the house in Winter River.

The last few times she’d been back there, it’d been bittersweetly empty; the Maitlands had crossed over a few years ago, after Lydia’s first year in NYU, and it just wasn’t the same without them.  
She was happy that they’d had the opportunity to advance into a proper afterlife, of course. But she also missed them.

They’d been there for her when she and her parents had first moved there, and she was suicidally depressed. Over time, they became her second parents, and they were one of the main reasons she had been doing so well with her mental illness.

And they had protected her from...

Lydia paused mid shirt-folding.

From...

Her jaw clenched.

_From..._

She closed her eyes, and briefly flashed back to all those years ago. The snake, the tiny guy in the town model...

_From...Mr. Orion’s Armpit._

She smirked at the epithet she’d thought up, but also felt an uneasy symphony of nerves in her belly.

Barbara had had a sandworm devour him, and they’d never heard from him again; Barbara had even asked Juno what had happened to him, and she had told them not to worry—he’d been sent to the literal and metaphorical back of the line, so it could be _centuries_ before they’d even so much as hear a cupboard door rattle from him.

Still...Lydia found herself thinking of what had almost transpired between them. She’d nearly become his wife, and...and who knows what would have happened after that. Possession? Death? Something even **worse**?

The thought of what-very-well-could-have-been nearly unraveled her mind, so she paused her suitcase packing to go down her anti-anxiety pill.  
As she waited for it to kick in, she soothed herself (or tried to) by reminding herself that nothing had ended up happening because he had been sent back to the Netherworld, and that she wasn’t really bound to him. In fact, she was the archive of his machination’s failure—she was still here, above ground and away from him, he was...wherever the hell he was. Not near her.

She could endure _that_ thought process.

Still...she couldn’t help but still see flashes of that black-and-white striped suit in her mind, and she found the nerves in her gut once again winding themselves up small and tight, before the anti-anxiety pill finally untied them.

As she emptied the last drawer, she couldn’t help but bitterly laugh at herself.

Who was she, now? After all of that, and the stalking?

A nervous wreck.

A paranoid sometimes insomniac.

An anxiety-ridden, sad little victim.

_**No...** _

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stuffed her final pair of socks into the almost overstuffed leather bag.

A **survivor**.

And she **wouldn’t** disappoint herself.


	8. Blackbird (Chapter 7)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after about a month-long break, I've finally updated with chapter 7. The companion song shares a name with this chapter, and it's by Sarah McLachlan.

Lydia shoved her last suitcase into the trunk of the 1989 Plymouth Reliant as the sun hung low in the sky; getting ready to leave had taken all day, and now her heart was playing an intense rhythm of anxiety and excitement.  
The "emergency" credit card her father had given her had paid for this simple little previously-owned 4-door, and now she was ready to embark on her journey.  


Slamming the trunk door down, she turned to Belinda and Belinda's older brother Beauvis (who was nice enough to help with this).

"Well," Lydia swallowed and adjusted her sunglasses, nerves fluttering in her gut even with anti-anxiety meds, "This is it. Thank you so much, for everything."

"Don't mention it, Lyddie," Linda smiled, reaching out and pulling the goth girl into a hug. " _Anything_ for a friend."

Lydia squeezed her friend tight, her nose tickled by dark locs; the faint scent of jasmine floated from the other woman's body and around Lydia's face, soothing her nerves a bit. She was gonna miss this; even just a couple hours away, she wouldn't be able to see Linda often.

Pulling back after what seemed like an hour but was probably a minute at most, Lydia squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. "Time to go. And again..." she looked from Linda to Beau, "Thank you **so** much. I wouldn't be able to do this without you."

"No problem," Beauvis shrugged and smiled warmly, "Take care, kid." 

"I will. And you two...you'll be careful, right? And make sure those locks get changed?"

"Sure will. That piece of trash ain't getting in again,", Beau replied. He slid back into his Mitsubishi Diamante, winking at her confidently before closing the door. "We got it. And _you_ got _this_ , Dietz."

"He's right," Linda squeezed Lydia's hand. "You **do**."

Lydia nodded, gave her dear friend one last hug, savoring every second of it, then slid into the driver's seat of her new (to her) sedan.

Just as she was pulling out of the parking lot, Beau honked at her and Linda motioned for Lydia to roll down her window.

"Call me when you get there!"

"I will! **Promise**!"

And she was off.

* * *

The sun had since gone down, and now Lydia was driving along the I-95 as the sky continued to darken. Normally she loved the night, but she was travelling alone, for around 2 to 3 hours, and trying to escape from someone (and doing so in the dark, well....)

She clutched the steering wheel tightly as she drove, not feeling entirely confident that **he** hadn't followed her.

She knew that she and Linda and Beau had been careful, she knew that she had broken her routine, she knew that her stalker wouldn't check in on her or come around just yet...and still...

Lydia shook her head and forced those thoughts from her head.

 _No_.

Even if he came around looking for her, all he was going to find was Beau, Linda, and a locksmith (who Linda had called that morning). She'd left _nothing_ of hers behind—she'd even tossed out the lock of hair he'd left. There was **no** trace of her left there. Plus Linda and company wouldn't hesitate to physically toss him out if need be. (He'd be trespassing, after all).

It also helped that New York City was big, and unless you were trained for this sort of thing, it could be difficult to track people; even if he knew she'd left, it'd take him a while to figure out just _when_ and _how_. And exactly _where_. 

It also also helped that the Plymouth sedan she was driving was far from her preferred colour of black; as a precaution, Lydia had chosen one in a light cream colour, thinking it would make it harder for him to recognize her in something so different from what you'd expect a goth girl like her to be driving.

Still...she was nervous as _hell_. She tugged at the throat of her black turtleneck, which suddenly felt a little too tight.

"I can do this," she said out loud to herself. "I **am** doing this." She raised her chin slightly and forced a determined expression on her face.

She had packed her things, informed her doctor of her departure, left a forwarding address for her mail, bought a car and left. She was escaping. A bird flying to freedom.

The moment to do so had arisen and she was doing quite well. She glanced at herself in the mirror, and saw a determined spark in her usually somewhat sunken-looking eyes.  
Yeah, she _was_ doing well. She **could** deal with this. She smiled at her reflection, then turned on the radio.  


The last bit of another Sarah McLachlan song; it was gentle, encouraging, and soothing. She decided to sing along to it.

  
_"Blackbird fly, blackbird fly_  
  
_Into the light of the dark black night_  


  
_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_   
  
_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_  
  
_All your life_  
  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_  
  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_  
  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise"_  


She was on her way home. On her way to **freedom**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Linda and Beau pique your interest a bit. I need to develop them and put them in more stories.
> 
> Also, I have no idea how American highways work, or buying used cars. If I've got anything wrong...it's gonna have to stay wrong :P


	9. Take Me Back (Chapter 8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion song for this chapter is "Take Me Back" by Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Lydia found herself relaxing slightly when she pulled into Winter River; sure, she'd miss the bright lights and energy of New York (again), but the city now lacked the safe feeling she currently needed.

And that really was what was missing—the ability to relax and feel relatively safe. She'd been on edge and feeling fairly low because of her current situation, and knowing that the big house in familiar territory was waiting for her took the edge off a bit.

The twisting country roads weren't as busy as the city's crowded streets—and at this hour, many of the other citizens were probably in bed, or just winding down for the night. Unlike the busy, loud, bright, sensory-overload of New York.

She rolled down her window and took a whiff of the night air, the subtle and gentle smell of small town soothing her senses.

She was going home.

* * *

When she pulled into the driveway, she was both surprised and relieved that nothing had changed. She figured Delia would have done some more... _artistic_ renovations to the house in her absence, but everything was just as it was the last time she was here. The big white house was just the same as when they and the Maitlands had forged a harmonious co-existence.

_The Maitlands..._

Lydia shut off the engine and sat back in the car seat. It'd been a few years since the sweet ghost couple had permanently crossed over, and she had to admit that during a time like this, it would've been nice to have them around. They'd essentially became a second set of parents to her, and now that she was back here again in Winter River, she was missing them _terribly_.

Especially since they'd be happy to help protect her (in any way they could) against her stalker.

She forcibly shook her head, clearing her mind of thoughts of that bastard. _No_. No more thinking about him tonight.

As she exited the Dodge Aries, and gathered her suitcases, she took a look at the house again. The only lights on were the one by the door, and a few reflectors in the driveway. Other than that, it was pretty dark.  
Especially in the house—not a single light was on inside, the windows looking almost black in the dark of the early night.

Nobody was there except her. She was going to be alone in this big old house, on top of this big old hill for a while.  
That soured her mood a bit, but she pushed these feelings aside and trudged up the steps to the front door, put her key into the lock and turned the knob.

As she crossed over the threshold, she could feel so many emotions bubbling up inside her; the house somehow both seemed comfortingly familiar to her _and_ strangely alien.

It was big, dark, empty, and isolated. But—unlike New York for these past few years—it felt like _home_.

In spite of being from elsewhere, in spite of being alone up here, in spite of everything...it felt like she belonged there.


	10. Subway (Chapter 9)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion music for this chapter is "Subway Song" by The Cure.

She was walking along the city streets, hands in her coat pockets, minding her own business on her way home. It was dark. Nighttime. Quiet, as far as New York City went.

But with a sinister feeling in the air...

Lydia glanced behind her as she walked, unable to shake the feeling that someone was following her. A **certain** someone...

She shuddered, and picked up her pace, inhaling deeply the cool air and funky city miasma. She spotted a subway entrance up ahead, and breathed a sigh of relief. If she could just get home, she’d be safe.

She practically skipped down the concrete steps, eager to hop onto the subway train and get the hell home. Though this eagerness was diminished a bit by realizing that it was a bit dark down there...and she could still feel _**him**_ following her.

She began walking even faster, heart beating in her chest, mouth going dry, skin vibrating with anxiety and nervousness. She just had to make it to the platform, step into the subway car, and she’d be fine. She could do that. She could evade him.

At least...she _thought_ she could. The platform, barely visible in the dark and claustrophobic horizon, didn’t seem to be getting any closer. In fact...it appeared to get farther and farther away, the closer she thought she got to it. But that was probably just her mind playing tricks on her, anxiety and nerves somehow making it seem like she was going faster than she really was....right?

She bit her lip and looked around. The normally bustling subway system was oddly barren and peaceful, compared to how it usually was. There were a few crowds of people here and there, but otherwise it appeared that she was largely alone down there.

_Alone, vulnerable, defenseless._

Lydia swallowed, and stopped for a moment to look around again. The sparse crowds were becoming smaller, the subway station becoming darker, the sense of dread becoming greater. She closed her eyes for a second, letting out a long breath in an attempt to calm herself, then opened her eyes to find that the dark, damp space she occupied was now completely empty of people. She was utterly alone down there now.

_Except for..._

Lydia swallowed a hard lump in her throat, felt her heart race like a galloping horse, and her breath come in short huffs. Then she broke into a run toward the platform.

She could see it, it was the only thing down there that was well-illuminated, and she locked her eyes onto it like it was her salvation (and, in a way, it was). It still seemed so far away, but if she could just _get_ there...

She then suddenly heard thudding footsteps behind her, keeping pace with her.

**No!** _No no no no no no_...

She was crying now, shaking with fear and dread as she sprinted to the platform, silently praying and begging to whoever was listening that the train would come and she could leap into a car and have the sliding doors safely separate her and _**him**_.

The footsteps were picking up speed, creating a synchronous echo with hers. She didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare think of who she’d find behind her. And what he’d do if he caught up to her...

Now bawling with terror, Lydia pushed herself to run even faster, and letting out a hopeful gasp when she heard the sound of the train making its way toward her.

If it would just get here...if she could just _get to the platform_...

But she didn’t.

The train pulled up, but Lydia was grabbed from behind just as the doors began to open. She let out a strangled sob as she was forcibly turned around, finally coming face-to-face with the reason of her escape attempt.

Then she woke up, screaming.


End file.
